Saturday Afternoon. 2:00 PM.
While most of the West Midlands tuned into Soccer Saturday or headed to the pub, Ethan's bedroom resembled a bunker.
The curtains were drawn. His dual-monitor setup provided the only light. The left screen displayed a paused frame of the West Brom First Team in a defensive formation. The right screen showed a digital notebook filled with timestamps and arrows.
Ethan sat in his gaming chair, wearing a hoodie and clicking a pen repeatedly.
Timestamp: 14:32. Situation: Opposition left-back receives ball. Vance's Instruction: The 6 (Me) does NOT press. The 6 screens the passing lane to the 10.
Ethan hit the spacebar. The video played for three seconds. He rewound it and played it again.
"Three steps," Ethan muttered, watching the pixelated figure of the current First Team captain glide across the grass. "He moves three steps right before the ball is kicked."
He was trying to decode the "Vance Trigger." Julian Vance's system depended on a collective effort. If one player stepped out, the other ten had to rotate immediately. If Ethan was half a second late, the "heartbeat" stopped, and the body collapsed.
He rubbed his eyes. The USB stick felt like it was burning a hole in his laptop.
His phone buzzed on the desk.
Callum: Outside. Open up. We come bearing gifts.
2:10 PM.
Ethan opened the front door to find Callum holding two large pizza boxes and Mason carrying a six-pack of Lucozade Sport.
"We figured you were starving," Callum said, stepping past him. "Or dehydrating. Or crying."
"I'm working," Ethan said, leading them upstairs.
"It's Saturday, mate," Mason said, placing the drinks on the desk. He glanced at the screens. "Is this the Vance Tape?"
"Yeah," Ethan sighed, collapsing back into his chair. "Six hours of defensive rotations. He said if I don't master this by Monday, I'm invisible."
Callum opened a pizza box (Pepperoni Passion, extra cheese). He took a slice and pointed at the screen with the crust. "It looks like geometry homework. Where's the football?"
"This is the football," Ethan said, pointing at the pause button. "Look at this. The opposition 8 makes a run into the half-space. The First Team pivot checks his shoulder, sees the run, and blocks the lane. But he doesn't tackle. He just stands there."
"He's screening," Mason said, leaning in closer. "He's forcing the passer to go wide."
"Exactly," Ethan said. "But when I do it, I get too close. I try to win the ball. Vance says I'm 'leaving the gate open.'"
Mason grabbed the mouse. "Play it again."
Ethan played the clip. The First Team midfielder moved like a ghost—never sprinting, just gliding into the perfect spot to disrupt the offense.
"You're too aggressive," Mason observed. "You're used to dominating kids physically. You want to make the tackle because you know you'll win it. At this level, if you dive in and miss..."
"...the number 10 is through," Ethan finished.
"Stand up," Mason commanded.
"What?"
"Stand up. Callum, you're the opposition midfielder with the ball."
Callum stood near the door, holding a stress ball he found on the floor. "I'm Kevin De Bruyne. Fear me."
"I'm the center-back," Mason said, standing by the bed. "Ethan, you're the 6. Stand between us."
Ethan stood in the middle of his bedroom rug.
"Right," Mason said. "Callum, pretend to pass to the wardrobe. That's the winger."
Callum shaped his body to pass right.
Ethan instinctively stepped toward Callum to cut the angle.
"Stop!" Mason yelled. "Look where you are!"
Ethan looked down. He had taken two steps toward Callum.
"You've left me exposed," Mason said, pointing to the gap between Ethan and the bed. "If Callum fakes that pass and plays it through the middle, I'm dead. You need to pivot on your back foot."
Ethan reset. "Okay. Pivot back foot."
"Callum, go again."
Callum shaped to pass. This time, Ethan didn't step forward. He dropped his right foot back, opened his hips, and kept his eyes on Callum while angling his body toward Mason.
"Better!" Mason said. "Now you can see both. You're screening the pass to me, but you can still press if he takes a bad touch."
They practiced again. And again. For forty minutes, three teenagers reenacted Championship midfield battles in a bedroom in Eastfield, using a wardrobe as a winger and a laundry basket as a striker.
4:00 PM.
They lay sprawled on the floor, the pizza gone.
"I think I get it," Ethan said, staring at the ceiling. "It's not about winning the ball. It's about denying the space."
"Welcome to my world," Mason grinned. "Defending isn't glorious. It's just damage control."
"So," Callum wiped tomato sauce from his chin. "If you nail this session on Monday... you'll be on the bench? For the First Team?"
"Maybe," Ethan replied, afraid to say it out loud. "Vance said 'if.'"
"That's crazy." Callum shook his head. "You'll be on TV. I'll have to pay a subscription to watch you sit down."
"Speaking of TV," Ethan propped himself up on his elbows. "You guys have the Draw on Monday."
The mood in the room changed. Monday was the FA Cup 4th Qualifying Round draw. Crestwood had beaten Kidderminster. They were one win away from the First Round Proper—the round where League One and League Two teams entered. The round where the BBC cameras showed up.
"We need a home draw," Mason said seriously. "If we get a decent team at home, with the crowd... anything can happen."
"Imagine we get Wrexham." Callum's eyes widened. "Ryan Reynolds in the Crestwood clubhouse. Sully would try to sell him a raffle ticket."
Ethan laughed, but he felt a pang of separation. "If I'm training with the First Team on Monday... I won't be able to listen to the draw with you guys."
"It's fine," Mason said, standing up and checking his watch. "We'll text you. You focus on Vance. If you mess up that rotation because you're wondering if we drew Dagenham & Redbridge, I'll kill you myself."
Callum stood up too, dusting crumbs off his tracksuit. "We have to go. Sully organized a 'team bonding' event."
"Drinking?" Ethan asked.
"Bowling," Callum rolled his eyes. "Apparently, I'm not allowed near alcohol until we lose."
Ethan walked them to the door. "Thanks for the help," he said. "The wardrobe drill... it actually helped."
"Don't mention it," Mason said. He paused at the door. "Eth. Don't let Vance scare you. He's just a guy with an iPad. You're better than the guy on that tape."
"I will be," Ethan promised.
He watched them walk down the driveway. Mason, the rock. Callum, the spark. They were heading to a bowling alley to bond with semi-pros and plumbers. Ethan was going back upstairs to memorize the pressing triggers of a Championship team.
He closed the door, returned to his desk, and hit play.
Timestamp: 14:35. Action: Pivot back foot. Screen the gate.
"I see it," Ethan whispered. "I see it."